


The Boys In The Band

by laughingmistress



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Sillyness, Vegetables, abject nerdery, pre ExR if you squint, why did this even happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 05:38:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16738126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingmistress/pseuds/laughingmistress
Summary: Enjolras is witness to some complete tomfoolery, and some of the boys have a novel idea involving vegetables.





	The Boys In The Band

**Author's Note:**

> There was this ridiculous video on my tumblr feed this morning of a man making a musical instrument out of a carrot. He was very talented, it was impressive.
> 
> However, this ridiculousness is what popped into my head as a result and I couldn't let it go without writing it down.

Enjolras swore he heard distant drums.

 

Or something very like, at any rate. The sound was now coming up the stairs of the Musain, and it was a rhythmic sort of thumping, but not as deep as a proper drum ought to be. He stood, wondering what he was about to be confronted with, and blinked when Bahorel appeared at the top of the stair, with a fat pumpkin tucked under one strong arm. At least, Enjolras thought it _had_ been a pumpkin, but the top had been cut off, and the inside scooped out, he supposed, and a bit of oilcloth stretched tight over the hole. And Bahorel was, in fact, beating upon it with his free hand as thought this makeshift was a proper drum.

 

Bahorel grinned upon spotting Enjolras. “Ah! I didn’t think you’d already be here! We have a surprise for you tonight!”

 

Enjolras’ left eyebrow went up a little. “What sort of a…surprise?”

 

Bahorel laughed. Before he could say anything further, Joly and Bossuet squeezed up the stair together and crowded into the room behind him, and so he was obliged to make room.

 

“It’s begun raining!” Joly sounded somewhat put out.  “We shall have to postphone.” Enjolras noted that what appeared to be a long cucumber was sticking out of one of the pockets of his tail coat, and wondered if there was a farmer’s market nearby that he had not heard about. Bossuet made a tsk-ing sound, and pulled a single breakfast radish out of his pocket, examining it with his bald head cocked slightly to the side, and frowned.

 

“We mustn’t! My radish is looking unhealthy, it will rot before we have another pleasant day...!”

 

“No! We can’t have that!" Jean Prouvaire’s ginger head popped into view, just peeking over the top of the stair case. "Although I’m sure there’s a metaphor in that, your radish too soon parted, parted before the parade—“ Here they pursed their lips, looking thoughtful. “That’s actually not bad.” They were clutching what seemed at first glance to be a small set of shepherd’s pipes, but Enjolras took a second look, and realized it was in fact, a half dozen carrots bound together in order of descending size. They seemed to have holes drilled in them. He pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath. He wondered if it was too early to go home to bed, to read through his notes with a large cup of tea.

 

“Dare I ask--?”

 

Joly and Bossuet looked at each other and descended into laughing, no help from that quarter, but Jehan smiled.  “It is a new initiative, Enjolras, an experiment. We have decided to try our hand at being the—what was it that we came up with, Bahorel, dear? I’ve quite lost the order of it—“

 

“The Premiere Revolutionary Market Vegetable Marching Band and Mobile Soup Kitchen of the Marais. “ He grinned, and clapped Enjolras on the shoulder. “ We were all over to Grantaire’s, having a few drinks, you know. And we got onto how we might feed the hungry people, and so we went out to look 'round the market, and genius struck. First we will _play_ the vegetables, which will make people gather, and then we shall make our instruments into a good hot soup, and feed them to the poor. So we may attract people to our cause, and be of service to our fellow man all at once! Brilliant, no?”

 

“No.” Enjolras looked round at them all and made a realization. “You…are all still quite drunk, aren’t you.” It was not quite a question.

 

Bossuet looked at him for a moment, then raised a hand and blew smartly into his radish. It made a sound somewhere between a kazoo’s squeak and a small fart. 

 

A moment of silence descended, only interrupted by Joly letting out a small nervous giggle.

 

Enjolras’ eyeball twitched. Then the little wrinkle at the side of his nose. Then he began to shake. Finally he gave in, and howled with laughter. “You are—insane. Every one of you. The best of men at heart but…utterly mad.” He could hardly breathe.

 

Just then, Grantaire put in an appearance. He was carrying a large yellow and green streaked swan necked gourd, with a handful of tiny holes drilled into the long curved neck of it, and the bottom chopped off. It looked to have a small tin funnel jammed up into it. “Well then, are we off? Or—Oh.“ His gravelly enthusiasm came to a halt on seeing Enjolras, although he perked up again on realizing that the wheezing sound coming from the man was, in fact, laughter. “Are we not to be lectured, then?”

 

Bahorel grinned. “Not if we go before he resumes respiration..?” So saying, he struck up a jaunty marching beat upon his pumpkin, trooped once around Enjolras, and then proceeded down the stairs. Joly looked at Bossuet, shrugged and pulled out his cucumber. He began playing on the thing as if it were a very wet flute—the sound rather matched—and went after Bahorel, stepping only slightly behind the beat without his cane. Bossuet followed, making little contrapuntal farting sounds into his radish. Jehan looked thrilled, started in on a surprisingly pleasant melody upon their carrots, and went after them all, leaving Enjolras doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks.

 

Grantaire couldn’t seem to move, he was that stunned to see it. It made him feel rather cheerful, seeing their leader unwrapped from his tightly held dignity for a moment. He waited until Enjolras had gathered himself again before saying anything. Then he grinned. “You should laugh more.” He darted forward, kissed Enjolras once on the cheek with a loud smacking sound, then made him a wink and a sketchy sort of salute, and went out, marching down the stair with lifted knees, and playing on his gourd as though it was an oboe. It was louder than expected, and Grantaire was surprisingly talented with getting a tune from it.

 

Enjolras was left standing perfectly still in the middle of the upper room of Musain, wondering what, exactly, had just happened. He could hear the motely assortment of vegetables tootling along as they went out into the street. Bahorel was singing a bawdy sort of marching song, something to do with aubergines. He pressed one hand to his cheek for a moment, absently, then shook his head. 

 

He was definitely going home to bed.


End file.
